


stay with me forever (or stay with me for now)

by zigostia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Drug Use, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-29 17:20:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15078020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zigostia/pseuds/zigostia
Summary: It's boring without you.





	stay with me forever (or stay with me for now)

He was in the milk aisle.

He’d gotten thinner—his coat hanging off his tall, lanky (lankier) frame, his jawline a sharp swipe of a permanent marker across his neck, a turned-up collar slicing through the pale patch of his skin.

John’s feet turned to lead, stilling on their steps.

Next to him, Mary continued, humming an absent melody under her breath; her fingers dancing across biscuits, crackers, and tea.

John gripped the handlebar of the shopping cart, fighting its momentum.

Mary’s fingers paused on a jar of Earl Grey, lingered, dropped down to her hip. She turned around. Smile from teasing to curious concern.

“John?” Coming closer, hands atop his, warm and soft. “What’s wrong?”

Mary’s eyes, wide; rich, deep blue. Without conscious command, his gaze left it, darting away. Returning to the milk aisle.

His hair tumbled down his forehead in long (longer) curls, stumbling on the edge of elegantly rumpled, delicately nonchalant. His hand came up, thin fingers absently pushing back stray locks of hair, tucking them in place behind his ear.

Mary’s fingers curled around John’s hand, prodding and prompting until they were clasped together, tightly twined. John’s fingers twitched as he forced a rising tremble to a still. He turned his palm up towards her, requiting the hold, and squeezed.

“That’s Sherlock,” she said, her voice low, then rapidly whirling up until it was louder, higher, tinged with emotion. “John, that’s _Sherlock,_ isn’t it? It really is him.” Gripping his hand tighter, she tugged him away from the cart, took a step, two, three. “My god, he’s in the _milk aisle._ He’s _buying milk._ Tell me, John, has he ever bought milk a single time in his life? Does he even know what milk is?”

John didn’t answer. Mary went on, word by word and step by step, the distance between them and (is it really?) him getting smaller and smaller.

“Sherlock!” Mary cried, waving a hand.

He straightened, head turning. His eyes met Mary’s, then flitted to John’s. Pale blue lightning, cool and calm.

“John,” he said evenly, “Mary.”

“Sherlock,” John said, the word rebelliously slipping from his lips. His gaze roamed across the contours and corners of Sherlock’s cheeks, jawline, neck, then met his eyes in a smooth, slipped mask.

“How _are_ you?” Mary’s smile was as bright as the fluorescent bulbs above their heads.

“Fine,” Sherlock answered, casual. He didn’t take his eyes off of John.

The air turned dense and cluttered, pressing down and into John’s chest like bags of sand. His throat was quickly closing up; he darted out his tongue to moisten his lips.

Mary was saying something, her hands rising into the air in emphasis. John took his left hand in his right and twisted his fingers together, his thumb rubbing across the cool strip of metal until it burned.

He looked at Sherlock. Sherlock looked at him. Next to them, Mary went on, her voice muddled and underwater, gone unheard.

-+-+-+-

Sherlock opened the door in his pyjamas, thin swooping collar drawing John’s eyes irrevocably to his neck.

John shut his eyes briefly and clenched a loose fist, thumb running over the knuckles of his left hand, and opened his eyes to meet Sherlock’s gaze.

“There’s a jumper,” he said, immediately stuttering, stumbling over the words. He cleared his throat. “We’re packing, for our honeymoon. There’s this jumper that Mary likes. We couldn’t find it at our flat.” He shifted on his feet. “The blue one.”

“Teal,” Sherlock corrected. “Turquoise. Maybe cerulean.” His voice was softly-whipped cream, hazy with the hush of the early morning. “Blend of wool and cotton, imported from Malaysia. Machine knitted.” He inhaled sharply, as if caught by surprise, and let it out slowly. “It’s upstairs.”

He stepped to one side as John entered, their shoulders bumping against each other in the narrow hallway.

“In your room,” Sherlock said as they climbed the stairs to the second floor. “On top of the dresser.”

The door was closed. John turned the handle and entered his room.

“Good memories,” he murmured, the attempt at lightness falling without resistance.

Sherlock didn’t answer; he nodded to the dresser over at the far side of the bed. Forgotten clothing lay on top, a telltale strip of blue fitted snugly in the middle of the pile.

John walked over and slipped it out from its companions. Holding it by the shoulders, he unfolded it.

“Thanks.” He smiled at Sherlock, tightly, politely, safely. “I’ll—” He swallowed. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“Try it on,” Sherlock said suddenly, and then clamped his mouth shut, as if surprised by his own voice.

John stilled, tilted his head. “Right now?”

Sherlock turned his face away, his mouth pressed into a thin line. “Just to see if it fits,” he muttered, and then ventured a wary glance at John. “You’ve put on three pounds.”

“Two,” John said, a smile lifting his lips.

Sherlock gave John a look over that started from his feet and ended at his eyes, returning the smile. “Three.”

John sighed. “Arse.” He turned the jumper over in his hands, threaded his arms through the bottom, and pulled it over his head.

“There,” he said, untwisting the sleeves and smoothing down the front. “Still fits. Happy now?”

Sherlock followed John’s hands, from the arms to the chest, then his eyes flitted up to meet John’s.

“The sleeves are too short,” he said, voice lower than before, quieter, more hesitant. “And the collar is tighter than comfort.”

“Yeah, well.” John tugged at one of the sleeves and fought the urge to pull at his collar. “Mary likes it.”

“Mary also liked your moustache.”

“Shut up.” John rolled his eyes. “She asked for this one, specifically. That must mean something, at the very least.” He shrugged. “Not sure why this particular jumper stood out, though.”

“It matches your eyes,” Sherlock said. He took a step closer. Tilted his head very slightly to the side, a lock of hair falling out of place, tumbling over his cheekbone. “Brings out the blue.”

Waves of warmth swept over his skin at Sherlock’s keen scrutiny. He forced himself not to look away; rather he smiled, held Sherlock’s gaze. “Does it?”

Another step. Head dipped slightly down to meet John’s eyes. “They appear hazel in darker lighting. Navy at other times. Lighter blue in the sunlight.” His voice became impossibly low until it was barely a rumble, softly spoken, almost a purr, almost as if he were speaking to himself. “The colour is difficult to pin down—cobalt, sapphire, sea glass. If you want to be epodic about it.”

John’s chest rose and fell beneath the jumper, shallow and uneven. “Yeah?”

Sherlock raised a hand up to John’s temple. His fingers brushed John’s hair from his eyes, leaving pinpricks of tingling skin where they touched. His eyes scoped John’s face, sweeping across his eyelashes, tracing down his jaw. At his eyes they lingered, opalescent as they refracted the light from the room. John thought fleetingly that Sherlock wasn’t one to talk about eye colour.

“Mary’s not entirely illogical,” Sherlock murmured, “in her request for this jumper. However, I would not say that it is required more so than simply appreciated.”

John paused, doubtful of his own voice, before speaking. “Thanks,” he said, in a voice much breathier than he had intended.

Sherlock nodded.

The two of them stood, inches away, completely still in fear of shattering the air that had settled, delicate and fragile like spider’s silk, quivering.

-+-+-+-

“John!”

Gasping, John’s eyes slammed open, then fluttered at the scarce light in the room. A moment of frenzied confusion, panic cluttering his mind, an image rapidly slipping from his memory with his return to consciousness.

He gulped in air as he came to his surrounding, struggling to regulate his breaths. His hands strangled the patterned duvet, his body twisted and trapped, his slumbering self unsuccessful in his attempt to escape from the confines of the thin, damp blanket.

“John.”

He swivelled his head to the source of the sound. Mary peered at him with a searching eye, concern tugging down the corners of her mouth.

“Hey,” she approached.

John shifted, trying to untangle himself from the mess of cramped limbs and twisted duvet. He tried for a smile, though he was sure it appeared more of a grimace than anything else. “Hey,” he responded.

Mary reached out a hand to place on John’s, and for once they felt cooler than his own burning skin. “Wanna talk about it?” she asked softly.

John pressed his lips together and shook his head. “It’s fine. I think I just need some air.”

Propping herself up with an elbow, Mary said, “I’ll come with you.”

John shook his head again. “No, it’s OK. Just go back to sleep, yeah?” He guided one hand off from Mary’s, placed it over both of theirs, stroked softly. Smiled.

Mary pursed her lips, reluctance evident over her features. “Alright,” she relented.

“I’ll be back soon,” John promised as Mary sank back down into the bed. “Love you.”

“Love you,” Mary mumbled, pulling the blankets over herself and turning around.

Fumbling in the navy blue darkness, John pulled on a coat and a pair of sandals and slipped out the door.

The cottage was gorgeous, picture-perfect, an idyllic scene fit for a postcard. A gentle breeze ruffled his hair, warming his skin, carrying the faint tang of the sea in its wake. He left his shoes where grass blended with the bay. The sand was smooth and soft, speckled with tiny seashells that clinked against his bare feet. As he neared the water, prickles of saltwater collected in the air, the sea spray cool on his neck.

Inky blue waves sliced patterns over the surface of the sea, rising and falling with the tide. John stopped over dampened sand, standing in silence to the ambient hiss of the waves until he felt them lapping over his feet, warm water turning cold as the wind whistled over his ankles. The water washed away scattered sand over his skin, cooling in crystallizing salt. The horizon scoped across his line of vision, dappled with a dim skyline of a faraway city.

John reached into his pocket and took out his phone, positioned for a picture. The lightning shifted and swayed, turning dark, then brightening in hazy increments as the lens adjusted to the night.

John exited the app, then stood for a moment, the home screen weakly shining.

Then, without thinking, he swiped, tapped, scrolled, opened the app. His fingers flew over the keys and he pressed send without reading it over, before the opportunity for second thoughts had its chance to cross his mind.

_The ocean is beautiful at night._

He watched the bright blue bubble pop onto the screen, shook his head a fraction, and cast his eyes back to the waters. Through the wispy whispers of the waves, he could hear his heart thrumming in his ears.

His phone vibrated.

_You’re having nightmares again. SH_

John read the text twice, then ducked his head, his fingers darting over the screen.

_And you’re not sleeping again._

_Neither are you. SH_

_Well, it’s not like it’s a common thing for me._

_Which one—nightmares or not sleeping? SH_

_I’d think the two of them would be directly correlated to each other, no?_

_Are you suggesting nightmares are not caused by sleeping? SH_

_Piss off. It’s too early for this._

_You’re the one who texted me first. SH_

_Touché. You win this round._

_I win every round. SH_

_God, you’re annoying._

 

_I can see when you’ve been typing for the past ninety seconds, you know. SH_

_Arse. If you’re so eager to deduce me, go ahead._

_You’ve gotten a nightmare, but instead of letting yourself be comforted by Mary and going back to sleep, you’re texting me. You must have gone out for air, so you’re most likely down at the beach. You’re standing at the edge of the sea with your feet in the water. SH_

_You don’t have to look around; there are no cameras. SH_

_That is only slightly reassuring coming from you. Anything else to add?_

_Who’s the one typing for ninety seconds now?_

_Your nightmare must have woken up Mary, and she wouldn’t have ignored you and let you go outside without trying to comfort you in your bed first. You were the one who turned it down. If it had been memories of the war, you would’ve accepted comfort. It was something else, and judging from the fact that you’re texting me, we both know the one remaining possibility. SH_

_How are you so sure?_

_I know you. SH_

 

_It’s not always the same._

_Sometimes you fall with Moriarty. Sometimes he pulls out a gun and puts a bullet through your brain before doing the same to himself._

_Sometimes, the sniper gets to me first. Sometimes, when I realize what’s happening, I take my gun and press it to my temple._

_Sometimes, I get to the roof._

_Sometimes, I fall with you._

_But I can never stop it. Always the same ending, always the same outcome._

_I’ve stopped having nightmares about the war long ago, but this isn’t much better._

_It would be easier if I could forget them, after. But it stays with me. In the morning, when I’m checking up a patient, when I’m trying to go back to sleep, the next day._

_At least, with the war, it was just me. Me and a bullet in my shoulder, bleeding out into the hot desert sand. Just me._

_But, you. It’s different with you. Because it’s_ you, _and nothing’s ever the same with you, is it?_

_I didn’t realize what was happening at first. There’s always a moment of confusion, like I’ve just broken the surface of the water after a long swim, trying to make sense of my surroundings. Then I saw you on the roof._

_I ran. You told me to stop, to stay exactly where I was, but I didn’t listen, not this time._

_Moriarty was there, on the roof. He was looking at you. He was laughing like he was mad._

_And he turned around, and it was you. It was you, standing there, and you looked horrified, and disappointed, and scared. And Moriarty’s voice was still there, and he laughed, and then there was a gunshot, and you stepped off the edge and fell._

_Mary woke me, then. Sometimes she doesn’t. When she doesn’t, the scene shifts to the pavement. Sometimes, there’s no crowd. It’s worse that way, with nothing to distract me._

_I’m trying not to think about it. I know it’s not real, and I know it’s over, and I know it’s all fine now. But it’s not like I can control what I think._

_I threw up afterwards, did you know? Days, weeks. My limp returned. I noticed my hands shaking when I filled out forms._

_The nightmares were worse, then. They came more frequently. More… graphic._

_Sherlock, I know you’re reading this._

_This is stupid. I’m being irrational, I know. The more I try not to think about it the worse it gets._

_I’m sorry._

_John. SH_

_Sherlock._

_You’re here._

_Of course I am. Now calm down. Breathe. SH_

_Trying._

_Look at the water. Breathe in when the waves rise to your ankles. Breathe out when they sink back down. SH_

_Two minutes, John. Just watch the waves. I’ll text you when it’s over. SH_

 

_Two minutes. SH_

_Better? SH_

_Better._

_Good. Are you well enough to go back to sleep? SH_

_I don’t know. I don’t know._

_I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s going on with me. This is just stupid, all of it._

_Look up. SH_

_What?_

_To the right, near the horizon. Thirty degrees up, perhaps. SH_

_See those three stars? SH_

_Yeah, I do._

_Now, look at the bottom two, forming the base. SH_

_What are you planning now?_

_Those two stars: they’re called Altair and Vega. SH_

_It’s an old Chinese legend. There once was a poor man, commonfolk, named Altair. SH_

_What kind of name is that?_

_Exactly. And I thought Sherlock was bad. SH_

_Ha, ha. Carry on with your old Chinese legend._

_Altair meets Vega, the princess of the heavenly stars, and they fall in love. However, Vega’s mother, lady of the sky, would never approve of their relationship. The only way they could see each other was with clandestine meetings, in the middle of the night. SH_

_And so the two of them decide to run away, hiding into the heavens. SH_

_But Vega’s mother caught them. Furious, she created a river that split the two of them into different sides of the sky._

_Miles apart with no way of reaching the other, Altair and Vega despaired. SH_

_Well, this is quite a depressing bedtime story._

_Shut up, I’m not finished. SH_

_The emperor of the sky—Vega’s father—became sympathetic, and created a flock of magpies across the river. These birds formed a bridge, known more commonly as the Milky Way, and the two lovers were reunited. SH_

_And then?_

_That’s it. SH_

_That’s it? They just get back together?_

_Yes. SH_

_By walking on magpies?_

_Magical magpies. SH_

_How the fuck does that even work? What happens after? Does Vega’s mother know about this?_

_And, most importantly, why did you tell me any of this?_

_So you can understand why I despise Astronomy so much. SH_

_Honestly, you have more questions than I did. I’m surprised you retained any knowledge about the Sun. SH_

_That’s bullshit. This is mythology, not astronomy. Why did you actually tell me this?_

_How’s your heart rate? Your breathing? SH_

_… Enough for me to go back to sleep._

_Christ, your smugness is radiating from my phone screen._

_So, how long did it take you to find this weird obscure constellation myth?_

_Two minutes. SH_

_Goddamnit, Sherlock. I’m going back to bed._

_That’s the plan. SH_

_Oh, and also—_

_Thank you._

_You’re welcome. SH_

_-+-+-+-_

_New case. Stolen jewellery, suspected foul play. SH_

_Sounds a bit dull for your tastes._

_The thief used cryptology to communicate with the others involved. It would be more efficient with a second person working with me._

_Oh, so you purposely chose an easier case because of me?_

_Wouldn’t want to throw you in with the sharks after so long without swimming. SH_

_Since when did you use analogies?_

_Since you’ve started paying attention. Baader-Meinhof phenomenon. SH_

_Baker street in ten. SH_

_Hold on, when did I say I was free?_

_Why, are you not? SH_

_Well, if you are, bring handcuffs and a gun. The suspect has a reputation in the criminal classes. SH_

_You are a manipulative bastard, you know that?_

_Ugh. I’ll be there in ten._

-+-+-+-

Around a corner, there he was; clad in all black.

John skidded to a stop, reaching for his hip.

“Don’t move!” he shouted, his gun straight and dead-steady.

The man turned. Froze. Began to raise his hands into the air.

A flash of a tall, dark coat.

Sherlock barrelled into John’s side, shoving them both into the wall. A loud crack echoed through the alley, leaving a ringing in his ears in its wake.

Then Sherlock was clambering up, scrambling over, tackling the man to the ground. The glint of handcuffs in the dim alleyway light. A clatter of something solid and hard hitting the ground, its stuttered skid over the pavement. A clink of metal as Sherlock shifted, sitting on top of the suspect, pinning him into place.

John was there in a split second, dropping down next to them on his knees.

“Shit,” he breathed, surveying the scene. Handcuffed suspect, no immediate danger; his own gun tucked back into its holster; another one kicked halfway across the alley.

“Charlie Waters,” Sherlock said, breathing heavily, “I declare you under arrest.”

Later, when papers were filled and people were interrogated, they stood across the street from a row of police cars.

“His coworker found out,” Sherlock said, “and told his sister via his own phone, which he had left on his desk—”

“The fingerprints,” John said.

“And the passcode,” Sherlock allocated.

John felt his mind click. “Brilliant,” he exhaled.

Sherlock glanced up. He smiled, lined with something gentle, soft.

John tapped his fingers on his thigh and shifted on his feet. He felt jittery all over, high-strung, fire ants running down his legs and his arms.

“Haven’t done this in a while,” he said. “Bit out of practice.” He remembered the flash of the handcuffs, the clatter of the gun as it fell to the floor.

“The gunshot,” he said. “Are you alright?”

“Me? I’m fine,” Sherlock replied casually.

John raised an eyebrow. “I can tell when you’re lying.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, a sigh escaping. “No,” he said, sounding tired, “you can’t.”

“Sherlock, I’ve known you for years. Do you think I haven’t picked up on a few things?”

“No,” Sherlock said, “I think you’ve picked up on Lestrade collecting the bullet that had been shot as evidence, and the fact that it has blood on it.”

John tilted his head. “Well, that along with the fact that you didn’t immediately refuse your shock blanket when offered, and that you’re still wearing it now, gives me evidence to suggest it’s on your back. You’re unconsciously holding your left shoulder higher than the right, so I’m guessing near there?”

Sherlock hummed a little, looking at John with reignited attention. “That’s very good, John, well done.”

John pressed his lips together. It was exceedingly obvious that Sherlock was being buttery and more than a little condescending, but it didn’t stop a flush from creeping into his cheeks.

“Well then,” he said, “let’s take a look at it.” He nodded towards the blanket.

Sherlock didn’t visibly tense, but his eyes took on a glimmer, the tightness in the corner of his mouth increasing almost imperceptibly. “No—not here,” he said, quietly, but resolute.

John frowned. “Baker Street, then?”

Sherlock’s posture contained an unnatural stiffness. “It’s nothing, John. A graze.”

A pause, where John decided how far to press.

“You’re hiding something,” he said, taking the leap. “Is it—are you using again? Is that why? You don’t want to have to take off your shirt, have me see your arms?” He felt something hot and bitter simmer up inside of him. “Jesus, Sherlock—”

Impatiently, Sherlock pushed up the sleeve of his left arm and held it out. “Take a look yourself.”

John took the pale, thin limb, traced a finger down the inner forearm. Pale speckles freckled over the skin, a smattering of late nights tinged with deadly boredom. Fading.

“Other arm,” he said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and reached around, began to roll up his other sleeve.

John raised his gaze from Sherlock’s arm and watched his face, carefully—there. A twitch of emotion, a twinge of pain. A tight, concealed grimace, flashing on his usually-pristine facade. John’s eyes flickered, traced the curve of Sherlock’s shoulders, the blanket covering the state of his wound.

“For god’s sake, John,” Sherlock said, catching on. Voice laced with exasperation, pushing both sleeves back down. “I’m fine.”

“Then it won’t hurt to let me take a look,” John said as he began to walk down the street. “And unless _contortionist_ is one of those strange abilities you’ve picked up over the years, I don’t think you’ll have a load of fun cleaning a wound on your back.”

One moment later, he heard footsteps behind him.

“You are infuriatingly obstinate,” Sherlock declared, falling into step next to John.

John raised his hand to a nearing cab. “Wonder where I get that from,” he said, and caught from the side of his eye Sherlock hiding a smile.

The ride to Baker Street was quiet and bumpy. John paid the cabbie as Sherlock stepped onto the porch and unlocked the door, blanket still wrapped around his shoulders.

He kept it on until John had prepared the usual supplies for dressing a wound, arranging two chairs in a row. Sherlock sat into the one at the front, and let the blanket drop onto the floor.

Near the left shoulder blade: a tear in the fabric of his expensive wool coat. A darkened, drizzling path from the gash. John pursed his lips, fluttering fingertips brushing over the wound: damp, coming off tinted red.

“Not as bad as it could have been,” he admitted, feeling relief mingle with concern in a strange cocktail in his stomach. “You don’t even need sutures.”

“Told you,” Sherlock muttered.

“Well.” John dipped one of the two cloths into the tub of water. “Off, then. Coat. Shirt.

“I can’t clean a wound through two layers of fabric, Sherlock,” he added, when Sherlock didn’t move.

John put a hand on Sherlock’s left shoulder, just above the wound. “Look,” he said, softening his voice until it was gently prompting, “whatever it is, I can handle it.”

Wordlessly, Sherlock slipped off his coat, unbuttoned his shirt, and slid it off his shoulders.

It was a graze, barely scraping the skin, spreading thin rivlets of scabbing scarlet down his back. But that wasn’t what caught his eye.

John’s heart hit the bottom of his stomach with a dull thud. His chest suddenly constricted, the air dense and heavy against his ribs.

His mouth open, his breathing stuttered. His hands came up, ignoring the fresh wound, heading for the old; angry, twisted lines marring the skin across his back. Pale (paler), criss-crossing and zig-zagging like a roadmap across his back.

John’s hand hovered for a moment, then came in contact with Sherlock’s back. A faint, feathery touch of fingertips against one of the markings, starting at the back of his neck and sloping its way down at a slant. He traced it, following the pathway, trailing down, feeling the textural difference in scar and skin.

He stopped at the end of the line, the tip of his index finger resting at the small of Sherlock’s back. Stayed for a second.

Then, he took it off. Picked up the wet cloth. Wrung it out slightly, raised it to the smeared pathway of blood, coppery-red. Dabbed, pressed, dipped back into water. Rinse and repeat.

When he finished, he placed it back into the water, now tinged a rosy pink, and picked up a new one; dry. Pressed, dabbed. Gauze and medical tape, bandaged lightly around the wound.

When everything was cleaned off and put aside, his hands free, job finished, John stayed seated in his chair and Sherlock didn’t stir.

John raised his hand again; this time, he placed his palm on the centre of Sherlock’s back, where pale paths intertwined into a coiled knot. Sherlock made a small noise in his throat—merely surprise, no pain. Perhaps only in rainy days, an ache that settled deep into his bones.

It couldn’t have been recent; after the Fall, then.

Was it immediately after? Or was it right before he returned, before he waltzed into that restaurant and crashed his dinner date—before John had grabbed him by the lapels and sent them both crashing to the ground.

John felt a churning in his gut and the sudden urge to be sick.

Sherlock spoke up.

“Old wounds don’t have to be reopened,” he said, voice careful.

“I don’t think this one’s ever healed,” John replied, sliding his hand down the spine, eyes scanning over fading lacerations that decorated the pale skin.

“It must have been years.” John voiced his thoughts out loud.

“Three,” Sherlock murmured. “Three years, two months, and twenty-five days.”

“Three years,” John repeated. “And I never…” His voice trailed off into a trembling press of lips together, blinking hard to rid the sting in his eyes.

“Don’t blame yourself.” Sherlock’s back moved with his breathing. John kept his hand pressed, felt the steady rise and fall. “I specifically made sure you wouldn’t find out.”

“That’s not better,” John said, “in the slightest.”

Sherlock drew in a breath as if to speak, but the resulting silence was evidence for the contrary.

“Mycroft,” John said, after a while. “Did he know?”

Sherlock paused before speaking. “Yes,” he said. “He infiltrated the prison three days before my escape.”

“Three days,” John said, his fingertips coming to a standstill on a spot on Sherlock’s back, where they pressed, gently, firmly, pinpoints of pressure.

Sherlock exhaled. “Although it is true that he could have intervened sooner, I have to admit that it was indeed him who had helped me escape.”

“I don’t—Sherlock, just shut up for a second.” John’s voice stretched, teetering, a wire coiled tight. “That doesn’t—he watched you get whipped, and beaten, for—it must have been hours—” His fingers trembled, dancing over Sherlock’s back.

Sherlock’s voice was hesitantly hushed. “Don’t be melodramatic, John.”

“Funny,” John said, “coming from you.” He couldn’t stop touching them, his fingers trailing down his scars and back up again, over and over. “How did you treat these?”

“I—mostly didn’t,” Sherlock muttered.

“Christ, Sherlock,” John whispered, “does no one take care of you except for me?”

Abnormally, astonishingly, inevitably, Sherlock was silent.

John was still for a moment.

Gently, gently, he leaned forward. Exhaled a steady stream of warm, tingling air between Sherlock’s shoulder blades. Slowly, slowly, his head tipped forward, his forehead resting against the bare, twisted skin of Sherlock’s back.

He was quiet; there was no sound save for the steadily unsteadying oscillation of his breaths, his lips ghosting over the ligaments of Sherlock’s spine. John squeezed his eyes shut, feeling moisture slip through his eyelashes and land, hot and wet, onto Sherlock’s back. He felt shivering and shimmering-hot, fire dancing across his skin.

He felt Sherlock’s back muscles moving with his breaths, shifting and contracting. The sound of uneven breathing filled the room.

Together, the two of them stayed. Connected from a single point of contact. Silent.

-+-+-+-

_January fifteenth._

_Happy anniversary, John. It’s the day I fell for you. SH_

_Not funny._

_Can’t sleep. Too much in my head tonight._

_Care to join me on top of St. Barts? SH_

_Not. Funny._

_Not intended to be. SH_

_I’m in my pyjamas._

_It’s two in the morning._

_I have to go into work tomorrow._

_I’ll be there in ten._

-+-+-+-

The air was biting and brisk and greeted him in all its icy formidability as John pushed open the door to the roof. Snowflakes danced along the horizon and swirled from the sky, speckles of fluttery chill on his cheek.

Sherlock was sitting on the edge of the rooftop, scarf and coat and tousled hair, dappled with glittering crystals of snow.

“Hello, John,” Sherlock murmured as John neared, his eyes flicking over to meet his.

John wavered at the edge a foot away, staring at Sherlock’s shoes as they hung off the ledge. “Do you really have to do that?”

Sherlock tilted his head. “There isn’t a sniper aimed at you as for the moment being, so I don’t see a reason for me to do anything rash. Unless you’re planning to push me off.”

“You’re flirting with danger,” John warned, even as he sat down next to Sherlock, slowly inching himself towards the edge until his feet dangled in the air.

Sherlock smirked. “You’re the one who’s abnormally attracted to it.”

“I can still push you off, you know.”

A gust of wind streamed through the sky, ruffling John’s hair and setting gooseflesh across his skin. He shivered, and rubbed his arms.

Sherlock glanced over. “Cold?”

John blew on his hands and pressed them against his thighs. “A bit,” he admitted.

“Hm,” Sherlock said, and shifted closer.

John swallowed, stilled for half a second—then responded by doing the same.

Slowly, without a word, they led and they followed, until they were pressed together, shoulder-to-shoulder, side-to-side.

“I used to come up here all the time,” Sherlock said, breaking the silence with a gentle prod of a voice, hushed. John hummed, prompting. “When I first moved to London. Watching. Observing.” He raised his chin, nodded to the streetlights, the cars, the slow-moving pedestrians scattered across the street grid, the few remaining who dared to venture out into the night after the cluttered, crowded mass of a day.

“London,” Sherlock murmured. “The city that never sleeps.”

“That’s New York,” John corrected.

“You mean you’re saying that London ever sleeps?”

“Not when you’re still here.”

Sherlock laughed quietly. He raised his face to the heavens, a charcoal sky paled by yellow streetlights.

“The Chinese legend,” John remembered.

“Altair and Vegas,” Sherlock acknowledged. He raised a hand, pointed at a spot in the sky, next to the clock tower. “Not as easy to see here than a cottage by the sea.”

John leaned closer to Sherlock, their heads bumping together. He narrowed his eyes at where he was pointing, and spotted the dim spots of two stars.

“Can’t believe you actually went and learned a constellation myth,” he murmured.

“Never again,” Sherlock said, a smile playing at his lips. “It was a special circumstance.”

“You mean the next time I get a nightmare, you won’t tell me a bedtime story?”

“Don’t push the envelope,” Sherlock warned.

John smiled, his face tilted towards Sherlock. Sherlock looked back, eyes reflecting the scarce London light. Blossoms of snow collected in his lashes like winter mascara, white on black.

Sherlock turned his face back to the sky.

“Fascinating,” he said, “if you take time to consider it.” His tone shifted, taking on an air of somberness, almost awe. “The universe is infinitely huge, to a point where we cannot even begin to process. We are all incredibly insignificant, a fraction of a fraction of everything else. In a holistic manner, nothing we do, nothing at all, matters in the slightest.

“We all are lost, wandering in a world with no sense of direction nor purpose of existing. And yet, we continue to survive, out of nothing but sheer will, a desire to _experience._

“It’s all chance, balance of probability—that’s all it is. The two of us, here, now. If you hadn’t decided to go on a walk that autumn afternoon, if you got caught at a stoplight for two extra minutes, if Mike hadn’t felt the need to sit down at a park bench. If I hadn’t discovered the boots of Carl Powers, or felt the need to examine the way a corpse bruises after being whipped for fifteen minutes. All of this would be gone.”

Sherlock took in a deep breath, an intermission to this sudden and abrupt speech. Eyelids fluttering, briefly closing.

“Do you think,” he started again, “things could’ve gone differently? Every action has consequences, everything we do—and the things we don’t. If one of us had acted differently, one day. Something small, seemingly inconsequential. Would it have begun an unravelling of events, leading to an entirely different outcome than what we have today?”

The question hung, held suspended by the wintery night air.

When John spoke, it was with a voice so quiet, it was only for their proximity that Sherlock picked it up.

“Yes,” he said, his eyes falling shut. “I do believe that.”

His head dipped until it was resting against Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock leaned into the touch, his cheek on John’s hair.

It snowed.

-+-+-+-

_I did an experiment with the hands in the fridge yesterday. Cleared out the space. SH_

_I found a bottle of ice wine in the back. I suppose alcohol is a decent substitute. SH_

_I’m not entirely sure why I’m texting you. You’ve most certainly gone back to sleep by now. SH_

_According to my calculations, my blood alcohol percentage is currently at point zero four percent. SH_ _  
_

_I solved a case two days ago. A woman drowned her neighbour’s friend in their backyard swimming pool. His DNA wasn’t left in the drains, but they were too recently cleaned considering the season, which caught my interest. Possibly one for the blog. SH_

 

_When my body betrays my mind and forbids me from alleyway chases any longer, I’d like to retire to Sussex. SH_

_I’d always thought beekeeping was a dignified occupation. SH_

_Point zero seven percent. SH_

 

_John._

_Come home. It’s boring without you._

 

_6:36 am  
9 messages were deleted. _

-+-+-+-

The mattress creaked softly as Mary shifted in the bed.

She propped herself up, her robe slipping off of one shoulder. She turned to John and smiled.

“Morning,” she murmured, eyes open and blearily bright, voice thick with sleep.

John turned his head to face her. His feet dangled from the side of the bed and he swung them gently, softly thudding against the side.

Mary tilted her head. Eyebrows furrowed. “You alright?”

Meeting Mary’s eyes, John gave her a smile.

“I’m alright,” he said, voice light (vacant). “Just—didn’t sleep very well.”

“Oh, John.” Mary’s eyes were wide, her voice flooding with sympathy. “Nightmares again?”

John rubbed his eyes. “Yeah,” he said after a pause. He looked down to his hands. The curtains fragmented the morning sun, dappled sunshine splattering into the room. It landed on the band of gold that hugged tightly around his finger. It glinted, and John’s eyelids fluttered.

A hand landed on his shoulder, gently rubbing. Her thumb, massaging circles into the knot of muscle.

“Go back to sleep, love,” Mary prompted. “It’s too early. What time is it?”

John tilted the phone in his hand and pressed the home button, lighting up the screen.

“Six,” he said.

-+-+-+-

John opened the door to Mrs. Hudson, who immediately burst into tears.

“Oh, John,” she sobbed, as John folded her into his arms.

“Hush, now, Mrs. Hudson, it’s alright,” John said, smoothing his voice over in an attempt to soothe. “What happened?”

“It’s—” Mrs. Hudson managed words between hiccoughs. “It’s Sherlock, John, he’s—” She shook her head, lips quivering, and clutched the lapels of John’s shirt.

John looked at Mary, whose eyes had gone wide, and then to Mrs. Hudson, who was still whimpering into his chest.

“Sherlock?” he said.

Sniffling, Mrs. Hudson pulled back and wiped a sleeve across her face.

“I don’t know where he got it from,” she said. “I thought he was over it by now—months and months, clean, and all of a sudden I come upstairs to _that—”_ She made a high noise in her throat, tinged with hysteria. “I don’t know what to do, John, you have to go see him.”

All the air in the room was suddenly charged, dense with electrons, buzzing across his skin.

Mary turned to Mrs. Hudson. Her voice was honey, butter on toast. “You must be terribly shaken. Why don’t you come in for some tea? Sit for a while.”

“That’s very kind of you, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said with a wobbly smile.

“It’s the least I can do,” Mary reassured, and then turned to John, her smile fading into something more solemn.

“Go,” she told him. “Who knows what Sherlock could’ve done by now.”

John nodded, turned out the door, and ran.

-+-+-+-

Sherlock’s hair jutted in spikes and curls, swept-back and tumbling down his face. His robe was rumpled, draping off his frame; thin, his spine brittle and bent, tethering on the edge of snapping. Left sleeve, pulled to the biceps. One hand wrapped around the wrist, the other dangling off the side of the armchair. Long fingers limp and snowy pale. His chest moved in shallow increments as he lay draped across the chair, sprawled and swept.

John’s chair.

John hadn’t recalled moving, but seconds later he was steps away. Careful breaths and a steady hand turned an arm over.

Fragile veins dressed the inner arm, snowy-white. Speckled and splattered, like coloured paint on a blank canvas, constellations across an inky sky.

John’s heart twisted with such an intensity that he opened his mouth, a noise slipping out, a groan and a grimace. He traced a finger down the tracks. Fresh on top of faded. New and old, too many of the former. His throat closed up and his chest collapsed on itself and it was suddenly impossible to breathe.

His hand left Sherlock’s arm, came higher, pushed tangled curls from a damp forehead. Fingers ghosting down his cheeks, trailing across his jaw. Faint fingers against the side of his neck. Fluttering pulse; fast, too fast.

“Oh, Sherlock.” John used up the last of his air.

Sherlock stirred. His head lolled to one side, a quiet moan escaping his lips.

His eyes opened, blinked, focused. Widened.

“You,” he said, voice astonishingly strong and laced with liquid accusation.

“Me,” John replied, feeling emotions whip around in his stomach in tumultuous turmoil. His hand on Sherlock’s neck, feeling the pulse quicken, rise dangerously. He opened his mouth and found nothing but silence against the screaming thoughts in his mind, pounding on glass walls.

 _“You,”_ Sherlock said, and surged from the chair, standing up. He took a staggering step forward and fell against John.

Instinctively, John’s arms came up to cushion him, to protect him, to pull against his push—but Sherlock put both hands against his chest and shoved them apart, stumbled back.

“John,” he said. “John.” His lips caressed the word.

“That’s me,” John said faintly.

“You,” Sherlock repeated.

John opened his mouth to respond when Sherlock snarled, his hands coming up to tear at his hair. Clutching fistfuls, he looked at John with eyes dark and stormy.

“Get _out,”_ he shouted, his voice explosive. “You won’t _leave.”_

John raised his hands in instinctive defence. “Hey,” he breathed, softening his voice until it was nothing but a feathery whisper, a trickle of honeyed warmth. “Sherlock—”

“No, no, no.” Sherlock shook his head. “I can’t, I have to—” He broke off into fast mutters, _sotto voce,_ just past the verge of too quickly for John to understand. He paced in circles as he spoke, eyes tightly closed.

The ache in John’s chest had been steadily increasing in intensity, creeping up on him until, now, it crested and broke. Someone pressed a hot poker into his sternum and twisted, searing his ribs.

Sherlock turned back to John, his eyes cloudy, but John could make out anger; fear saturated in light irises.

“I have to get you out,” Sherlock said, his voice deadly urgent, tinged with high hysteria. “Why won’t you get out?”

“Out,” John repeated, the voice echoing in his cluttered head. “Look, Sherlock, I have to—I need to make sure you’re alright, that you won’t overdose.”

“Overdose?” Sherlock repeated the word as if it were nonsensical gibberish. “No, I don’t—John, _why won’t you—_ you can’t,” he said, somehow managing to slip an air of condescending into his frenzied tone. “Don’t you see, you’re—this can’t be, not you and not me—why won’t you get out?”

“Out,” John repeated again. “Out of this flat? Do you want me to leave?”

“No,” Sherlock said, the word breaking like a bullet. Then, “Yes. Get out, why won’t you just _get out—”_

“Out _where,”_ John said, more vehemently than he had intended.

“Here,” Sherlock shouted, and wrapped his head in his arms. “Everywhere. It’s absolutely _maddening,_ irrational, completely illogical; it makes no sense, I need to get you out but you won’t and I can’t understand _why—”_ He looked to John, eyes swirling with confusion and bewilderment and fear and John felt the hot poker shatter into shards of molten metal, lodging in his abdomen, and he didn’t command his feet to move but they did, stepping closer and closer, like cornering a wild animal.

Sherlock took a staggering step back. “You won’t leave,” he said, voice thin and shimmering.

“No,” John said, “I won’t.”

He closed the distance between them in one final step, reached his arms around the other, and resolutely pulled him into his chest.

Sherlock immediately stiffened, his string of words snapping off into silence. Then a shudder racked his body, accompanied with a soft, raw noise in his throat. His palms pressed pressure against John’s chest. “You can’t,” he said, and John set his jaw and thinned his lips and kept his arms tight around him, until Sherlock’s hands slid and fell and he allowed John to draw him in, his face against his neck. “You have to leave,” he said, voice pleading, even as he fumbled to grab John’s jumper in his hands, pressed his face close as John folded him into his chest.

“I’m not leaving you, Sherlock,” John said. “I’m right here, and I’m staying.”

“No,” Sherlock protested. “You can’t. _She’s—”_ His mouth clamped shut.

Oh, John thought. _Oh, Sherlock._

“Mary’s at home,” he said, lips a scant millimetre from Sherlock’s ear. “But for now, I’m staying.”

He told himself it was the drugs, he told himself Sherlock was off his tits on cocaine and heroin and god knows what else, he told himself this was all going to be swept away as the high came down; Sherlock was borderline nonsensical and there was no way any of what he was saying conveyed between them in an understandable fashion, and if it did it was diluted and twisted out of form by stimulants.

He tightened his arms, feeling the shivers travel their way through Sherlock’s spine. It was like he had shrunk, the way he fit in John’s arms with such ease. A wounded animal, a bird with a broken wing. His torso, the narrow shoulders, that painfully-thin frame. One hand sweeping down his spine, feeling every crevice and bump (every scar) along the way.

“I’m not going to leave,” John said.

Sherlock laughed, a muffled sound, stilted. He was still shaking. His breath trembled over John’s skin.

“You already have,” he said.

John pressed his nose into Sherlock’s hair and held him closer in the silence.

-+-+-+-

Mary was sitting at the edge of the bed, her hair softly tumbling over her shoulder, swept to one side.

“Did you know,” she said quietly, “it’s still him you call out for?” She continued to speak, without turning around. “After all this time, it’s always him. It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

John stared at Mary through the murky shroud of sleep. “What is?”

“Oh,” Mary breathed. “We both know.”

“Mary,” John started, tentative and slow, “if you’re talking about Sherlock—”

“Of course I’m talking about Sherlock,” Mary said softly.

John paused. “Him and I. We’re not—Mary, I _married_ you.”

“You married me,” Mary said evenly, “but what meaning does that have, if you’re waking up at night because you keep having nightmares about your best friend dying, and he is the only one who can calm you down? What use is a ring and some papers?”

John felt his head begin to throb and he grimaced, raising a hand to massage his forehead. “Mary, you’re being irrational. It’s not like that, we’re just—” The word _friends_ got stuck in his throat. “We’re just us.”

“Exactly.” Mary swung her feet up onto the bed, shuffled until she was facing him, both of them leaning against the headboard with their shoulders. She looked at him, eyes a cool, steady blue—almost like Sherlock’s, John thought, and realized what he had just done.

“I…” John felt a churning in his gut, conflicting and foreboding. He lowered his head and breathed deeply through his nose, exhaled through gritted teeth.

“Mary,” he said. “I love you.”

“I know,” Mary replied. “But what’s this in comparison to you and Sherlock Holmes?”

Mary’s eyes were open, honest, and John felt shame crawling in the burn in his cheeks.

“You deserve better than me,” he said.

“Oh, John,” Mary replied lightly, “I really don’t.” Her fingers played with his, trailing down and tracing veins. “There’s so much you don’t know about me. But Sherlock—you’ve seen him at his worst, at times of madness, and you stayed. You stayed, John; would you do the same for me?”

“Yes,” John said, “I would.”

Mary smiled. “You’re very loyal, very quickly. I can make it easier for you.”

Her hands rose from John’s. Her fingers danced with each other, elegantly graceful, deliberate.

Something small and heavy dropped into John’s open palm. Radiating warmth.

John looked down at the ring in his hands and felt something flutter in his stomach. He blinked, and felt moisture collect on his eyelashes.

“If you need another push,” Mary said, “I’ve seen Sherlock. You’ve seen Sherlock. He’s heartbroken, John, he’s drowning himself in drugs just to feel something again.”

John blinked again, and felt the air chill his cheeks through the trail of a tear.

Mary’s hand came up to wipe it away. “You’ve got both of us,” she said, “but you’re all he has.”

“What about you?” John asked.

“I have me,” Mary replied, “and for me, that’s enough.”

John grabbed the ring in his left hand and turned it over, watched it reflect the scarce light that bled through silk curtains.

“Does this mean we’ll have to return all the gifts?” he said.

“Not a chance.”

“I get to keep the coffee maker.”

“You don’t even drink coffee.”

For the first time since he woke up, John smiled.

Mary saw, her own smile going genuine.

“You’re a good husband, John,” she said. “Loving. Funny. Sweet.”

“Good in bed?”

“Absolutely not.”

John sat up, the blanket falling from around his shoulders. “I’m really not.”

“I know. You’re dreadful, really.”

John’s smile was fleeting. “No, I mean I’m not—I’m not as good of a man as you think I am.”

“I know,” Mary said. “Sherlock knows, too. He’s seen it all. And look how much he still cares.”

John’s voice was firm as he struggled to keep the tremor hidden from hearing. “The man you think I am—that’s the man I want to be.”

Mary smiled. She leaned in and pressed a dry kiss to his cheek. “Well, then. John Watson. Get the hell on with it.”

On his way to the door, John turned.

“I get the rings if you get the wedding gifts.”

Mary scoffed. “I get to be best man at your wedding.”

“So soon? People would talk.”

“And since when did you mind?”

John grinned softly. “Thanks, Mary,” he said.

Mary tilted her head. “You’re welcome.”

“I’ll call you,” he said.

“No,” Mary said, “I’ll call you.”

“Alright,” John said.

He took one step out the door and paused, again.

“In another world,” he said, “in another life. If Sherlock wasn’t—if he wasn’t what he is. Maybe we would’ve been right for each other.”

Mary’s eyes softened at the corners. “Yes, perhaps.” She yawned. “But in this world, I believe there is a certain consulting detective who is very desperately in need of you.”

John nodded. “I’ll see you around.”

“Mm-hmm.” Mary hummed in acknowledgement, burrowing back into bed.

John let his gaze settle on her for a moment, watching the duvet rise and fall. Then, he walked out the door, stepped into the chilly London night, and ran.

-+-+-+-

Sherlock opened the door and let out an accidentally-escaped noise of surprise.

“John,” he said.

“Sherlock,” John said, and then, “Hi.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, closed it, drew in a deep breath through his nostrils, swallowed, and opened his mouth again.

“There are seven possibilities as to why you are here, and none of them seem quite plausible. You haven’t punched me in the time it took for me to say this sentence, so six. No police cars have pulled up on our street in the time it took for me to say this one, so five.” He paused to draw in a breath, and before he could begin ruling out the other five scenarios John decided to do it for him.

“I love you,” he said.

Sherlock stilled.

“You told me,” John continued, “on the rooftop, that night. You told me that the smallest actions could lead to unimaginable consequences. That everything we choose to do can change things in huge ways.” He took a step forward. “I’m making a decision right now. The consequences of this could be potentially devastating. It may not be the wisest, or the most rational, or even the most safe pathway I could follow through on, but it’s my choice, and I’m choosing it right now.”

Sherlock’s eyes were wide, aquamarine, skimming the surface of a tropical sea.

John stepped closer, closing off the rest of the space between them. He gently cupped the back of Sherlock’s neck in one hand while the other went up to his hair, tilted his head, and met their mouths together.

The world went silent. The hiss of tires on cement, the patter of pedestrian footsteps, the sempiternal sounds of London—all of it faded away, dropping off one by one, leaving only a single point of focus.

Sherlock was soft. His hair was silk in John’s fingers, his skin, his lips like petals. He was soft, like melted candles and candy floss. He tasted like tea.

He remained frozen in place, hands stock-still and hanging at his side, his body awkwardly angled down to meet John’s shorter stature.

Then, when John began to feel the seeds of doubt stir in his stomach, Sherlock’s hands came up and around, pulling him closer, tilting his head further to the side with a small sound in his throat, meeting him halfway, then more.

John’s mind went blissfully blank. Everything in him collapsed into a single pinpoint of focus, drowning in sensation. Sherlock’s hands, in his hair, running down his back, burning fingertips on his cheek; Sherlock’s lips, fierce and yearning against his.

Then, Sherlock put a hand to John’s chest and pushed weakly, a shred of the will to protest dissolving rapidly against John’s coaxing lips. He turned his head, breathing heavily.

“John,” he said, his voice shaky and rough-edged with carefully controlled desire. “What are you doing?”

“Mary left me,” John said. “Well, I left her, I suppose, but she brought it up first. It was kind of a mutual agreement.”

For the second time in John’s years of knowing him (and the first time was really quite rare, involving many points and details that he couldn’t bring himself to remember or care about at the moment), John found Sherlock at a complete loss for words.

And then Sherlock grabbed John’s face and pulled him in and kissed him like he was drowning, and John reciprocated with equal viscerality.

Together, without breaking hold, they stumbled into the building, the door swinging shut behind them. John cupped Sherlock’s face in both his hands and kissed him, desperation and adrenaline laced with a tidal wave of years and years of pent-up want, cresting and spilling over in a swell of euphoria.

Sherlock took John by the shoulders and swung him around, pushing him up against the wallpaper. He was never one to do things in fractions, John thought hazily, and this was no exception; it was cluttered and overwhelming, furious and explosive and unrelenting and it made the muscles in John’s legs all but cease to exist.

He slid down the wall and Sherlock joined, until they were both sitting, with John’s back against the wall and a handful of consulting detective in his lap.

Sherlock put his hands on John’s shoulders, steadying himself. His breathing was sporadic and his eyes were closed, eyelashes glistening in the light of the streetlamps that streamed in through the windows.

John raised a hand to touch his face. His fingers came off wet with tears.

He placed a hand on Sherlock’s cheek, brushed the corner of his eye with his thumb. “Hey,” he said quietly, “you alright?”

Sherlock swallowed. “You’re here,” he said, voice hoarse.

John took a curl of hair into his hands. “'Course I am,” he said softly.

Sherlock ducked his head into John’s chest. John’s arms went around him, rubbing absent circles into his back.

“Don’t go,” Sherlock said into John’s shirt. “Not again.”

John felt something fiercely protective swell up inside of him. “No,” he murmured, “not again—never again.”

Sherlock clung onto John and burrowed into his chest, seeking warmth, and John held on tighter and kissed the crown of his head and gave back with all he had.

Later.

Seconds, minutes, hours, later.

“If what you felt during the two years of my absence was half as much as what I felt during yours, then I have severely miscalculated the extent of our relationship.” Sherlock’s voice came muffled and soft, a murmured mumble. “I have been told, before, that I do not have a heart. It is a statement I am beginning to question, but even if I were to have one it certainly would not belong to me any longer.”

Sherlock pressed a kiss into John’s temple. “I cannot understand how or why a singular person can take everything I had thought to be concrete and shatter it all. But I have undergone a supernova, and you have become the Sun.”

John tightened his arms and felt starlight trickle through his veins.

“Again with the analogies,” he said.

Sherlock smiled, and then he yawned. With renewed attention, John saw the deep-set rings, dark around Sherlock’s eyes, and felt concern prickle at the corners of his mind.

“When was the last time you slept?” he asked.

Sherlock shook his head. “Not sure.”

John tightened his lips and forced them into a thin smile through the murk of worry and guilt. He had been neglectful, he realized, for far too long, and it was long overdue for him to fix this.

“Come on, then,” he said, “let’s get you to bed.”

Sherlock allowed himself to be led through the halls, up the stairs, and into the bedroom without protest. The moment his back hit the bed he seemed to melt, days and days of exhaustion seeping into the mattress.

John settled in next to him and gathered him into his arms. He was so thin, he thought with a pang in his chest; it took almost no effort at all to fit his lanky frame against John, curled up into an impossibly-small bundle. Their bodies slotted together like they were made for each other (and really, there was no evidence to the contrary to suggest that they weren’t, not anymore).

“John,” Sherlock whispered, the intoxicating lull of slumber pulling him in after so many days of denial. His hands, clutching the front of John’s shirt. “There’s so much to tell you.”

“Shh,” John hushed, stroking a hand down Sherlock’s hair and running his fingers through his curls, gently untangling. “Later, Sherlock.”

Sherlock dropped into a silence, his face against John’s chest, his breath tickling his neck. John buried his nose into his hair and held him tighter.

Outside, through the windowpane, the world stirred. Light lifted the veil of the night, seeping into the sky, and the quiet call of birds filled the air.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thanks to [ensorcel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ensorcel) for the late night encouragement <3 
> 
> "The man you think I am is the man I want to be" and "Get the hell on with it" are lines taken from TLD.
> 
> Title taken from the lyrics of "Cold Coffee" by Ed Sheeran.


End file.
